Volume 6 Issue 1 - The Fantasy Issue

CONTENTS 4

The Vampire FERRIS E. JONES

28

Our Other Worlds LIN LUNE

5

The Will to Choose KYLE CLIMANS

29

The Beast and His Doomsday Bride SHANNON L. CHRISTIE

7

Dark Figure ANDREW SCOTT

31

Can’t Destroy this Queen LINDA M. CRATE

8

Seven Colours MEENA CHOPRA

32

High Princess JUSTIN TUIJL

9

News Flash JOAN MCNERNEY

39

Timed Radiance/Laser Spider DONNA LANGEVIN

10

dream

40

Mythology

12

Second Time Around JOHN TAVARES

41

Lights Among the Tombstones JUSTIN PATRICK

15

Captured LUIS CUAUHTÉMOC BERRIOZÁBAL

45

The Land of Lost Things LEE-ANN TARAS

16

Tequila MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON

46

Comrades on the Road EDILSON A. FERREIRA

17

Underwater AIKO M.

18

FEATURE

BRUCE KAUFFMAN

ELLEN CHIA

All That Has Been Forgotten NICHOLAS ADAMS

Front Cover

MATHEW NAGENDRAN 2 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

Back Cover

SHANNON L. CHRISTIE

FREE LIT M A G A Z I N E Fantasy Editor-in-Chief Ashley Bernicky

Literary Editor Eunice Kim

Staff Writers

Kyle Climans, Alyssa Cooper, Bruce Kauffman

Contributors

Nicholas Adams, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Ellen Chia, Meena Chopra, Shannon L. Christie, Linda M. Crate, Edilson A. Ferreira, Meg Freer, Michael Lee Johnson, Ferris E. Jones, Donna Langevin, Lin Lune, Aiko M., Bob MacKenzie, Joan McNerney, Mathew Nagendran, Justin Patrick, Andrew Scott, Lee-Ann Taras, John Tavares, Justin Tuijl

Colophon

Free Lit Magazine is a digital literary magazine committed to the accessibility of literature for readers and the enrichment of writing for writers. Its mission is to form an online creative community by encouraging writers, artists, and photogrphers to practice their passion in a medium that anyone can access and appreciate.

As children, we are encouraged to run wild with our imaginations; to explore the fantasies we dream up– but only for a short time. Soon enough, we grow into adulthood, and are discouraged from having our head in the clouds so we can contribute to society. Some of us give in and lose our sense of wonder and our ability to imagine fantastical things. A select few are able to separate their reality from their ingenuity and still achieve great things.

Others get lost in the fantasies and expectations they’ve created.

What do you think of when you envision the concept of “fantasy”? Likely dragons, magic, castles, and far-off places we could only hope to inhabit. What makes the Fantasy Issue so unique is each contributor’s exploration of the theme and how it is manifested from their perspective: shadowy realms, an alternate universe, virtual reality, dreams, a place where one isn’t afraid to do the things they truly want. It’s ideas like this we are taught to ignore and push away in favour of the “real world” even though our fantasies are a true place to escape, hope, wonder, and explore.

Remember to leave yourself a distinguishable path out at the end of the last page.

Ashley Bernicky Editor-in-Chief

Contact

editor@freelitmagazine.com

Next Issue

Free Lit Magazine will be on a hiatus after publication of the Fantasy Issue. The next issue will be announced upon our return! Stay tuned to freelitmagazine.com.

VOLUME 6, ISSUE 1 - THE FANTASY ISSUE 3

The Vampire FERRIS E. JONES

Cloaked in red, white and blue A magnificent death animates The golden waves of tyranny.

Forgotten are the amicable hearts Of reason, once perched Before the torrent of misplaced mourners Seeking the coming of a deity.

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The Will to Choose KYLE CLIMANS

M

y new journey began when I travelled across the Void to seek an audience with the great being who called herself Kenbragh.

There had always been the Void, and there always would be the Void, just as the Kenbragh was always there, observing all, ruling all.

She is terrifying to behold, with a long body and an even longer tail. In a past life (and maybe a future one), I would have called her a dragon. It was not clear whether Kenbragh existed within the Void, or whether Kenbragh created the Void wherever she travelled. For she did travel. It was unthinkable that the great being was ever idle or asleep. Though she had wings, she did not fly, and though she had limbs, she did not walk. She simply moved, stretching and contracting, curling and straightening her body, sometimes just floating along as she ventured across the Void.

Nobody could claim they did not fear Kenbragh just a little bit. The most striking part of Kenbragh was not her teeth, nor her claws, for they seemed the least of her weapons.

What need did she have to bite or slash when she had those eyes? The three eyes atop her massive head were themselves vast and did not have a single colour. If one were to gaze into her eyes, one saw a kaleidoscope of changing shades and colours which never failed to mesmerize and entrance.

None of us know if Kenbragh created us, or if Kenbragh serves some other great being before her, but such was not to be known. As you can imagine, Kenbragh never spoke of such things.

The Void was peaceful, yet also chaotic. It remained the same only as long as one willed it thus, but the wills of billions caused the Void to shift its form endlessly, all while the massive Kenbragh observes and approves. There never seemed an end to the possibilities or the scope.

They did not know what to call themselves. It was impossible for them to know what they were, for the Void had no firm existence. They were the Children of Kenbragh, though Kenbragh never called them by that title. It was simply something which they had chosen for themselves.

None of us knew how long we had been there, or how long we would be there, living in the Void. Some are content to stay, but most grow restless eventually. We travel in groups, or individually, to Kenbragh for the Gift.

Time is a complicated matter in the Void, and I do not know how long we travelled, but when I and my companions reached the dragon, I called out with a voice I didn’t know I had, “Kenbragh! We wish to choose!”

The huge face, those daunting eyes, all of it was overwhelming to see, and just as we spoke without speaking, so too did Kenbragh’s voice boom aloud for us to hear without ears, “Look now and choose for thyselves.”

With that, her large wings spread out, filling up the Void, or so it seemed to the little Children, staring up at small spheres which were released from her wings and floated down amongst the group.

Other voices rang out, now, and face emerged, speaking urgently, begging and pleading.

Promises were made, facts were provided. Sometimes it was a man and a woman speaking, other times it was two men, or two woman, or two people of neither gender, and sometimes it was simply one person. The possibilities lay before them all.

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The shifting colours of Kenbragh’s glowing eyes were reflected in the silvery spheres, even as I moved from one sphere to another, looking at the eager faces who did not see me, yet clearly wished for me to be with them.

I do not know how many times I’ve been to see Kenbragh, nor do I know how many of these faces I’ve seen before. All that was known is forgotten in the Void, just as all which happens in the Void is forgotten elsewhere.

“Be with us! We’ll take care of you! We’ll love you!” This pleading sentiment echoed out in every language, arranged in a thousand different order of words. However, when I focus on an individual sphere, the people inside begin speaking further, with less desperation.

They speak to me of what they value, what they want, and what they consider to be an ideal life. Through this, they reveal so much of themselves and what my life would be with them.

All while I’m examining my options, the others with me are doing the same. Whenever one of the Children finds a home for themselves, they call out to Kenbragh, who opens her jaws wide. The Children, holding their spheres, disappear into her dark maw, never to be seen again. Kenbragh’s will says they will eventually return, though I do not remember how that happens, or why. It is the way of things here in the Void.

Finally, I find a sphere of my own. They are two men and a woman. The woman is distant, detached, asking only for me to be healthy. It is the men who hold hands, who are both eager to meet me. They do not know what I will be, but they don’t care. They only want to take care of me, to give me a good life and let me become whoever I am meant to be. I know I cannot speak to them through the sphere, but I still want to tell them that I do not know what I am meant to be, that there is nothing “meant” to happen. I know that now, of course, but I wonder if I will remember it when I leave the Void.

I take the sphere and approach the large eyes of Kenbragh. Her mouth is open, but I am afraid. I want to know more before I leave the Void.

“Kenbragh,” I begin, “What will happen to me?”

Kenbragh looks back, “That is not my place to tell. You are able to choose the time and place of your return, and the people whom you wish to be your parents. If you leave the Void and enter this new world, it will have been your choice. If you wish to stay, you may stay. But once you go, you will have a new life to make your own.”

The words are spoken kindly, but they give me no comfort, “If I make the wrong choice, can I return?”

Kenbragh’s eyes stare at me for a moment, but she does not answer me.

“Whatever happens to you, you will always return here, and you will be free to choose a new life for yourself.”

I pause, and look earnestly into one of those vast eyes, even as purple, blue, red, yellow, and green lights flicker, shimmering so intensely that you’d swear you were being blinded, “But if I cannot remember what I did in past lives, how can I truly learn any lessons?”

“You must do what you can. That is all one can do in this world you are seeing,” Kenbragh replied, ever the patient watcher, and her open mouth seemed to beckon me.

No more to say, no more to do. I go into that black chasm, where I know that I will soon awake with new eyes, crying out with a new voice. I do not know what I will be when I emerge, but I have chosen the time and place of my birth, and the people who will raise me as my parents. It is my privilege to choose this, the privilege of every Child in the Void.

Even as the darkness consumes me, that hopeful, happy thought remains to stop me from being afraid. For how terrifying must it be if one could not choose their own beginning?

What sort of existence would that be?

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Dark Figure

ANDREW SCOTT I am that dark figure standing alone on the outside, watching the people tear it down, burning all they have built.

Turning back the human race to the savage time of centuries ago.

I was there in 1969 when the Irish city of Belfast turned into a destructive time.

Filled with the heart of violence the healing never happened, leading to anger and hate that filled the ever-hanging cloud for decades of bombings and killings.

In the Canadian city of Oka, I stood on the land that was being protected by the Indigenous Mohawk tribe and the boys in blue and the boys in camouflage green.

Guiding the aimed bullets of pain to the one symbol of no tomorrow that was added to the burial ground.

As the National Guard lined up in Kent State to silence the war protesting voices echoing in Ohio.

I sat perched nearby about to change life in the seventies.

The guns were to be fired overhead, the aim off, killing four but taking so much more.

I was there for it all.

Pulling the strings of destruction, adding to the screams of the land over the mist of decay and fire.

I linger and go to the next town to leave my mark unseen.

No one sees this angel and no one ever will.

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Seven Colours MEENA CHOPRA

The nebulous fleeting softness rising from a dripping rainbow Falling drops on the window-sill Reflecting in my sultry eyes And I saw the sky in its stillness Sinking in a frenzy A broad daylight watched me in my true subdivision fuzzy and hazy whirlpooling Deflecting and dispersing a spectrum, Because Once upon a time I got steeped in seven colours

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News Flash

JOAN McNERNEY Mickey Mouse was arrested 9/4/14 in Times Square.

He was posing with a tourist and asked for money.* How dare Forty Second Street be defiled by such an unsavory character! Donald Duck was not available for comment.

Mini Mouse escaped capture by hiding behind a large sanitation vehicle. She was visibly shaken.

Humpty Dumpty tried to soothe her.

The Mayor of New York has had enough of these shenanigans.

Cartoon characters may not roam our streets unchecked.

All must be licensed and be registered. Who knows what criminal and possible terrorist activity Frosty might provoke? *This is an actual news item.

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dream

BRUCE KAUFFMAN after decades of proclaiming that i never dream when i sleep because i could never remember a single one for the past six months come these long and lucid dreams beginning almost immediately after i lie down in bed and close my eyes but now in the last few weeks

with no end in sight new dreams flashing in each time i but blink

these instant strobe-like

deep-story, millisecond dreams and i then lost away from this living other lives in as many an other world fifteen hundred times a day

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BOB MACKENZIE

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Second Time Around JOHN TAVARES

T

he librarian saw him enter the library, upset to see a library patron wearing a biker’s jacket, worn faded jeans, and snakeskin blunt-toed cowboy boots. The angular bearded man, clad in this leather jacket with far too many zippers, had come into the college library of Technology Campus of New College wishing to borrow a technical guidebook on the latest version of MosaicMorphPic, a software program used to manipulate photographic images on the monitors of personal computers.

Immediately she saw herself on the back of a large motorcycle, her hair whipping in the wind, her gloved hands gripping his sides, as they sped down the highway like a land rocket at over one hundred miles an hour.

The thin narrow man came to the circulation desk and showed her the computer software book, but he said he had no library card, since the college registrar’s office had not issued him a student’s card yet. She told him that he required a student’s card, which also served as a student’s library card, to legitimately borrow books from the library. Rules were rules.

What did he think? That rules were made to be bent or broken?

She had a mental image of him driving her up a mountain road, into breathtaking, lush, green country, complete with a highflying falcon. When she looked over the roadside, the mountainside plummeted vertically for hundreds of meters to the rocky ocean shore. Although the racing speed with which the motorcycle was driven filled her with fear and the screaming air whipped her and caused her to clench his sides harder, she glanced through her tinted motorcycle visor into the town on the other side of the road, gasping at the scenery. Upwards and upwards, they climbed, the tires spinning crazily on soft sand as the motorcycle ascended towards the mountain peak.

Realizing that she had forgotten to take her hormone replacement pill that morning, she peered though her bifocal spectacles and impatiently asked him if he had a student’s timetable at least. He told her that he had accidentally spilled some coffee on it, so that he couldn’t use it. Didn’t she understand? Of course, she understood, but rules were rules.

He stopped the motorcycle when they reached a meadow behind the road concealed by a stand of oak and chestnut trees. She pulled the picnic hamper from the saddlebags of the motorcycle. She fed him grapes, cheese, and wine and kissed his lips and throat. He listened attentively to her, as she read excerpts from the compilation of modern English verse she had brought along for the tour. Then she had unbuttoned her blouse and revealed that she hadn’t been wearing a bra.

He repeated to her that he badly needed this book for his photography course. Didn’t she believe him when he said that he was a student? Couldn’t she accept his student number—he did have that memorized—or some other photo identification? And when he did receive his new student card, he assured her, he would bring it to the library and show her. He promised he would even make an extra effort to get it as soon as possible, even though the registrar’s office was located at the humanities campus on the other side of the city, and bring it to her tomorrow morning. She told him no. He immediately needed something more official to borrow library books now.

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In the field close to the shores of the lake at the foot of the mountain she started unbuttoning his shirt and he finished unclasping and unclipping her blouse and unzipped the back of her skirt and was kissing her on the mouth and lips. She squeezed his shoulders and brought him closer.

She lay on top of him and reached into his underwear.

Angrily, he left the library. He was so angry that leaving Technology Campus he decided that he would make the trip all the way to the Humanities Campus of New College on the other side of town. He impatiently walked the few blocks to the subway station.

Realizing that he was cutting it close, time-wise, that he only had until four-thirty and it was already past two, he calmed himself down but decided to proceed with his plan nonetheless. He rode the subway to the eastern end of the line. Along with several other hundred commuters, he walked up several wide sets of stairs. Then he rode several escalators through the commuter train-bus complex one floor above ground level, where the buses massed, to the platform of the light rapid transit train. He rode the boxy light rapid train until it reached New College Station. From New College station he rode a bus for an agonizingly long time through flat monotonous suburbs and grimy industrial parks until he reached the sterling new Humanities Campus, where the main registrar’s office was located. Only after hurrying up and down countless flights of stairs and walking through blocks and blocks of turning, winding, twisting, and mazelike corridors, did he find the registrar’s office on the main floor. The registrar’s office had just closed, early, since it was the Friday before the Labour Day weekend, but a security guard at the information desk to the main entrance advised him that it might be worth trying the students’ services office. He found the offices of the student union beside the campus radio station and explained to the student who worked in student services that he had spilled coffee on his timetable, so that it had been practically destroyed. Now he couldn’t borrow any library books. Could they help him somehow? He had memorized his student number.

She lay beside him kissing him and stroking his hair, breathless. Her heart was l racing and pounding hard in his chest. They spoke about their plans for tomorrow. They would continue their sojourn until they reached the next European villa.

The student employed by the student services office in the student union found his name in their computer database, which indicated that he had paid his student activity fees for the fall and winter semesters. Incredible. Not only had he memorized his student number, but the computer screen also indicated that he had paid his tuition and locker fees for the fall and winter semester when most students couldn’t either remember their student number, the name of their faculty advisor, or had ever got around to paying their student activity fees. And here she had been sceptical of his whole story because of his age, which she inaccurately judged to be in his mid-thirties.

He sighed and yawned and slept most of the way through the long trip back to the Technology campus of New College, hoping that he would make it to the library before it closing time at suppertime. He was no longer angry. Instead, he thought, relaxed, that, since leaving the tire manufacturing plant where he had been recently put out of work by a massive layoff, which was caused by a safety recall of practically all of the tires that the company—which had employed him for the fourteen years—had manufactured in the past year—he was actually pursuing his teenage high school plan of getting into movie and television production: he was now a student in the film and television production program at New College. He couldn’t help thinking with some wry amusement that he could VOLUME 6, ISSUE 1 - THE FANTASY ISSUE 13

easily be starring in a television commercial attesting to the speed and efficiency the bus, light rapid transit, and subway trains of the city transit commission. But that was a silly notion, he thought. Your life is not a TV commercial, he told himself, thinking that he should write that phrase in the commonplace notebook that he had recently started to keep at the advice of his old high school counsellor, whom he had visited after the tire manufacturing company’s main plant closure and bankruptcy. Now, in regards to getting to the library before it closed, he wasn’t certain he would make it. He returned with a note that the young woman at the student services offices had given, attesting to his good standing in regard to student activity fees and that unfortunately since the computer printers were down they couldn’t provide him with the timetable he needed. The new batch of student IDs were due to be issued next week, the note said. She signed it as one of the junior staff members in the registrar’s office. He brought it to the library with a smug expression on his face. She examined the note, glared at him, looked down again, and thought that she could have slapped him. She was furious, apoplectic. How dare he question her authority. She had been a librarian for the past thirty years and had rarely missed a day of work. She had been responsible for computerizing the entire catalogue. She spearheaded the move to bring computer technology, including bar codes and an anti-theft system into the library. She took the book from him, dropped it on the counter, and started filling out the forms to allow him to sign it out without a library card.

She listened quietly to his breathing to see whether he was asleep. She could see that he was.

She quietly donned her clothes and riding gear, pulling up the zippers so quietly, and crept across the meadow to the motorcycle. When she reached it, she mounted it, pushed up the stand, and kicked down the starter. She sped off at full throttle. He was awakened by the sound of her roaring off on the motorcycle.

She awoke to find herself surrounded by the equipment of an intensive care unit. She struggled against the restraining straps. The nurse came to her side and injected a medication into her arm that promptly put her to sleep. The nurse then returned to her IV to get some more painkillers into her circulatory system to ease her pain.

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Captured

LUIS CUAUHTÉMOC BERRIOZÁBAL This night I walked into Medusa’s web of hair.

I took the wrong path and there was danger ahead.

She opened her eyes and a blue light blinded me like some supernova, the brightness startled me.

Here I remained tangled.

I felt a spider bite.

My flesh burned with pain. I felt like I was prey. My body went cold. All of my being was captured.

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Tequila

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON Single life is Tequila with a slice of lime, Shots offered my traveling strangers.

Play them all deal them jacks, some diamonds then spades, hold back aces play hardball, mock the jokers.

Paraplegic aging tumblers toss rocks, Their dice go for the one-night stand.

Poltergeist fluid define another frame.

Female dancers in the corner Crooked smiles in shadows.

Single ladies don’t eat that tequila worm dangle down the real story beneath their belts.

Men bashful, yet loud on sounds, but right times soft spoken.

Ladies men lack caring verbs, traitors to your skin.

Ladies if you really want the worm, Mescal, don’t be confused after midnight.

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Underwater AIKO M.

S

tanding on the ledge, looking into the water, I see my reflection. Underneath the water, I see the silver lights dancing around, the soft silhouettes of translucent bodies waiting for me to join them. They call my name, begging me to join, and be a part of them. One by one, they come to the surface, giggling, and splashing water among themselves. One of the translucent bodies swims over to me, splashing me with her tail in the process, and extends a hand. “Come my child, come join us. Leave your legs on land, and swim beautifully with us. We show no harm, and you will be free. Free from the human land, free from responsibilities that they have unleashed on you, and free from the body that restricts you.”

I stare at the translucent being in front of me in awe, and asked her, “Are you not part of the species called “Mermaids?” You look half human, but you got a tail to swim with…” I get cut off unexpectedly with the wave of her hand. She stares at me with a sullen look, and shakes her head. “We are neither these mermaids or a species that you call us of. We are simply beings, with no name, no actual body, inviting one of us back, who have stayed on land too long. You, my child, are one of us. You have been brainwashed by the likes of man, given no opportunities to find your true self, and molded to be what they wanted you to be. Come with us.

Come with me. Let us reunite you with your true family.” My mouth hangs open, perplexed by her words, but at the same time, her words stroke a chord within myself. I have never felt like I was at home, or in peace. I always felt different from everyone else around me. I also never fully gotten along with anyone, and felt alone almost all the time. The fact that a translucent being that is swimming in the water, is extending her hand to me, and I don’t even know her, says a lot of things. She trusts me more than I trust myself. Cautiously, I take her hand, and submerge myself in the water. I thought I was going to drown, but I can breathe underwater. I stare at her in shock, and she stares at me with a big smile on her face. She motions to my feet that have become this beautiful, pink tail with hues of bright purple on the tips. The other translucent beings swim around me, and with them, I go onto my new adventure as my true self, with nothing to hold me back.

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FEATURE STORY All That Has Been Forgotten NICHOLAS ADAMS

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R

olling sand pelted the skeleton’s ribcage and the richly embossed wolf’s head helmet that sat atop the otherwise barren skull.

“Shayna! Shayna!” Farrall’s voice called to her in a low, pointed yell. Shayna’s teeth gritted against each other; a bad habit she had never been able to lose.

“What is it, Farrall? I don’t have time for this.” Shayna called back, but he was already close enough to her that she could have whispered. He knelt on one knee with his opposite fist pressed into the ground, copper skin on brown sand. A long rifle jutted from behind his back like an extension of his spine. Fool’s wisdom, she thought obstinately. I still cannot believe they gave my little brother a gun. He is barely out of childhood. Shayna hated that her brother held a gun, or that anyone did for that matter, but she understood why he had to, albeit begrudgingly. The Old Lands were a dangerous place, but understanding did little to help the feeling of her stomach being turned upside down whenever she heard the dull thud of the wooden butt of the weapon against her brothers back.

However hard she tried to deny his manhood, tried to protest his holding of the weapon, his alar, the thin red cloth band that held his long black hair back from his face, marked him as one whether she liked it or not. His hamman, his sand-scarf, marked him a man again just as much as hers marked her a woman.

“They’re coming, Shayna! I told you the Dunes-men would find us, I told you—” “How far?”

“I... umm, maybe five minutes. But Shayna you can’t risk getting you killed, we can’t risk losing your—” “That is all the time I need, so long as I start now. Wake me if it is truly urgent.” Before Farrall could begin his protest, Shayna reached for the bones, for the memories. In that instant, her tight grip on the femur became feathery, like grasping at smoke.

It was illegal, as all knew, to even talk about the Old Lands, the lightest sentence being death by execution, much worse was starvation or burning. The High Council decreed long ago that the lands were corrupted; tainted forever by the mad violence and savagery of the old ways of which nobody truly knew. But one should not so easily believe everything that is said.

Shayna knew, as well as the other Seekers, that there was more to the Old Lands, and that walking in them wasn’t any more dangerous than walking in the streets of Fahrul. At the very least you had less of a chance of being pickpocketed here in the desert waste. They truly were safe, save the Dunes-men, members of the tribes around Fahrul hunting sent by the High Council to guard the land against people like Shayna, against the Seekers, the last organized group of seers that had been forced into silence after... Well, that was the question they sought answers for.

There had been a seer years ago that drew a map from memory, someone else’s memory of course, before exiling herself; a common thing among seers to silence and end memories that they held. That began the Seekers, the group of seers that sought whatever it was this seer had marked. At the heart of the map, in the depths Old Lands, was a spot marked ‘The Monarch’. That was what the Seekers called this pile of bones, though nobody knew whose bones they were, or if they even existed. But they were the very same bones that Shayna stood over, the same bones that Shayna would see the memories of.

Reaching was what made seers what they were. When a seer reached, sound was lost.

That, and feeling, at least of the present. Reaching brought the pains and pleasures of the past as if they were the seer’s own. Whoever a seer touched with intent to reach would be revealed to them, and this skeleton, the Monarch, was supposed to have the answer to all of the questions the Seeker’s asked. It was those answers that Shayna dug for, first laboriously VOLUME 6, ISSUE 1 - THE FANTASY ISSUE 19

through the sand and soft stone, then through the mind and experiences of this forgotten body, the final remnant of an exiled age and the last hope of understanding a past they had been forced to forget.

As the grip of smoke turned to steel, Shayna was no longer herself. Farrall was gone and the Dunes-men sent by the High Council no longer pursued them through the sand on the backs of their tall horses.

Shayna stood tall, but she was not herself anymore. Not at all. She was Riekel Allaren as much as she was Shayna, more so. She was the Monarch in some foreign land at a time nobody remembered. But she remembered it. She remembered it all. Shayna was not her name and when she tried to think about it, it came to her as unrecognizable as birdsong.

Shayna? Why do I think of names I have never known now? Battle hunger blinds me! Riekel blinked hard to banish the thought.

Riekel sat atop his strong dappled white war-horse who wore her armour as he did, heavy as stone, carried lightly as a feather. To his sides were his banner-man Shiraen, a young and unwavering Thilanen who had just earned his sword, and Igren, an old soldier with a single eye and scars that held tales longer than most books. Igren fought alongside his late mother as her Honour Guard and now alongside Riekel as his. All three of them were mounted on their war-horses on a podium above the stalwart mass of Thielenan soldiers.

Riekel watched his people from the slight podium that overlooked the courtyard, lined either side with the flat, crenelated roofs of tall houses where archers sat at the ready in case the walls were to be breached. Beyond that, the buildings rose higher and higher to the peak of the Great Watch, the keep of the Allaren family, all wrought with solid stone from the surrounding mountains. Every King and Queen of the Allaren line addressed their people from the grand podium before a battle, and Riekel was doing just that. He held the hilt of a light silver throwing-spear that glinted in the full morning sun, his longsword fastened tightly to his back alongside four more spears of similar weight, each wrought of hard steel with simple efficiency. The morning was hot and all in front of him in the far expanse of the courtyard were his trusted troops, the battle-hardened Thielenans bathing in the midday sun, their gleaming armour matching their silver swords and tall shields.

They were a city of soldiers whose parents and grandparents had fought under his mother to unite the nations of Khaladin and further back for his bloodline to the beginning of Thielen itself. Some of his mother’s soldiers were still alive, serving now as aged commanders, marked by the wolf’s head emblazoned on their chest plates. They lead the legions of two hundred, two hundred soldiers brave beyond courage and hard beyond steel. Riekel held the War Crown, a helmet forged to resemble a wolf’s head, under his arm.

It was the greatest embellishment of position in the army. He would not put it on until his first charge so that his soldiers could see his face, implacable and unmoving as stone and as steep as a cliff.

Silence reigned in the wide courtyard; an expected, tense quiet that Riekel knew he had to break. He did so in a great sonorous voice that shook the earth and roused courage.

“Good people of Thielen, the time has come to stand at the guard of your home.” At that, swords raised, and a cry of confidence filled the air. Scouts returned from Thielen’s nearby villages several days ago and hawks had been sent from the northern mountain cities where the solitary Mekarhi resided, as well as messengers from the southern marsh-lands days after. An enemy approached Thielen and took everything as they moved. All that Riekel’s mother had worked for in the unification of Khaladin was being swept away in the crashing flood of a great army which had not yet been named.

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Riekel’s mind raced and his heart beat faster than it already was. There was little time for thought anymore and certainly none for this pomp. He itched to be on the field with his soldiers behind him, to face this enemy and stomp them down with the unmet force of the Thielenans. They will learn the power of our people. If it must be done in their death, all the better. With a stern, lock-jawed gaze, he spoke again with words that came to him in a howl of eager ferocity that was the standard of his blood. He could only hold a stolid exterior for so long until his heart boiled with the hunger for action.

“We will waste no more time. Open the gates, for war has been brought to our doors!”

Another cheer shook the air into fervency as the line of soldiers parted for him. Riekel urged his horse on through the thin gap in the opening gates onto the fields of Maradon where no enemy army had stood for hundreds of years.

Outside the walls of Thielen, he urged his horse to a stop before the hilltop Thielen rested on began to slope to the valley of Maradon. Though Thielen sat atop a high hill, no enemy could yet be seen. Riekel peered as deep into the Maradon valley as he could, ridged with mountains and cut down the middle by the rapids of the river Galderan, named after his Mother’s admirable ferocity. It was an easily defensible place, a walled city where one man could hold ten, where one battle-hardened Thielenan could hold fifteen, but there was nothing to hold but great swathes of empty land. By the wetted edges of my blade, I will have my scout’s heads. Riekel thought as he ground his teeth near to dust. He turned to see the confusion on his soldier’s faces as they emerged from the gate and looked around, coming to the same realization as he, yet none so much as stirred the air in front of their mouths with speech. Battle was not a time for anything but focus and purpose. Riekel ordered Shiraen, his banner-man, to raise the standard of Thielen high into the air.

Shiraen did as he was commanded with eagerness to follow as all felt at Riekel’s word. The double-sided image rose to embolden allies and strike fear into enemies. The Silver Wolf of Thielen, backed by a rising sun, arched its head into a howl that one could hear just by gazing upon it. The wolf was a symbol of the Thielenan’s ferocity in battle, known in every corner of Khaladin; a symbol the other nations had bowed to in the struggle of unity; a symbol that was as much respected now as it once was feared. The Silver Wolf was a symbol of his family and him. He was the Silver Wolf, as was his mother and all of his ancestors. It was under this banner that Riekel ruled all of Khaladin with a benevolence that brook no revolt, until now.

From the White Sea in the East to the impassable waste in the West, from the tall mountain peaked cities of the Ygdragan in the north to the low marshes of the Salaane in the South and everything in-between. He ruled them, but his rule was quiet. People did as they were inclined to do, so far as it did not injure any other. Life was peaceful and the Silver Wolf banner hung above every noble house and city wall, uniting all under one.

As the banner rose, the very same one that had risen in every battle the Thielenan’s had fought since they had been named Thielenan’s, the faces of the soldiers hardened. Outlined by the late morning sun, the banner looked framed in golden thread. Riekel looked back to the ordered ranks of archers, cavalry, foot soldiers, and frowned. Among the masses was a sea of flinching reflections, glittering silver armour accentuating every eager tick, every unsure look cast upon the empty valley. Riekel looked across them, his brave army who he had led to war in the first uprising of western Arrent people after the unification. They all stood ready for battle, a battle Riekel began to doubt was coming. The gods hear me, I will— but before he could finish his thought, the glimmer on the soldier’s sharply polished silver flattened gone and the banner began to waver in the wind. The eyes of some of the soldiers shone white more than the blues and deep browns common to their people.

“Monarch, you will want to see this.” The spry voice of Shiraen reached his ear with a tone VOLUME 6, ISSUE 1 - THE FANTASY ISSUE 21

surrounded by unease. Riekel squinted and turned his horse around.

Great brown and red clouds formed far away in the Maradon valley at the as if the vast desert of the Allent waste had risen to the sky. He looked below the to the valley, but it was still empty. He looked to the river Galderan, his mother’s river. Where it was usually capped white at its high ridged banks, flowing with a ferocity that reminded him of her, it sat still, glassy and lifeless as water in a cup. Mother, you are never this still. What has given you cause to rest, for I cannot believe you would do so on your own.

“What is this witchery? Can it be the grave women of the Allent?” Riekel said to himself, studying the land below him, combing every blade of grass and boulder that bordered the now still river and outbound road with equal consideration for any sign of movement all while the sandy sky continued approaching in a curious wind.

Then, like heel-thorn sprouting from a deep winter frost, a figure became clear where the road of the Maradon valley ran out toward the south, out of the surrounding mountains, at the spot on the ground shrouded by the shadow of the heavy cloud. The figure was small in the distance, but its look came to Riekel under a black hood from eyes darker than the shrouded sky above. The gaze felt warm and touched him closely as if the figure had been standing right in front of him as if Riekel could reach out and touch him. The cloak of the High Council? Another thought came in that strange voice, certainly not his own. Hunger!

You will have your fill of blood, stop speaking fantasies into my mind. Riekel’s mouth twisted into a snarl and he rose his spear high into the dim day that now felt as cold as early autumn.

“Cavalry!” He twisted his horse around. “We ride forth at my lead!” At that, the lines of horse-riders began a trot up to his further rank.

“Monarch, excuse my asking, but at what? What are you riding for?” Igren asked in a low, puzzled tone.

“That figure, the one at the-” Riekel stopped. The figure was gone. He watched the space where the hooded person had stood with an open mouth and wide eyes.

“Perhaps we should wait, the hill is far more defensible if anyone is coming,” Igren said.

Riekel blinked. “Perhaps you are right,” Riekel said without looking away from the place the shrouded figure stood. He called off the cavalry and the returned to their places with spry looks from one to another, still obeying his words as all did without question.

They held their position as the sky continued to darken above them and the sandy clouds rested above the army’s heads. With the sand came a buffeting wind that grew as the shadow approached. The sun was but a candlelight behind a sheer curtain now. Horses began to fill the air with their cries and soldiers shifted from foot to foot, idle in heavy armour, heads pointed to the sky. Riekel scanned the valley fervently, holding his horse hard against its wishes to run.

“Monarch, we should consider returning. This is not natural, not natural at all!” Igren shouted with more than a hint of panic in his voice.

“We will make our stand here!” Riekel said loudly. He realized he had to shout above the growing wind to be heard, even by Igren who was only a few feet away from him. “No enemy has entered Thielen before and they will not now. I will not let that legacy die with me.”

“What enemy, Monarch? I have yet to see another soul but our Thielenans!” Shiraen shouted, fighting with all of the strength of his youth against the wind that threatened to rip the banner from his hands.

“We wait!” Riekel yelled back with a command that would allow no response.

Minutes passed and sand began to pelt Riekel’s chest like thrown rocks. Riekel looked still into the slowly disappearing Maradon valley, searching for that figure, looking as far as his 22 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

eyes allowed, but a thick cloud of sand and flecks of small stones began to curtain the low lands. Behind him, several of the cavalries had been bucked from their horses and were off trying to get their hands on reign or stirrup, the braids of some of the women flying wildly in the wind. Those that hadn’t been bucked fought their well-trained steeds as if they had been reduced to wild untamed horses. The orderly units of legions stood still but were so far back they were almost lost to Riekel’s sharp eyes. Nothing at all of Thielen’s high walls marked it as ever having been there through the sandy fog.

“Ah!” Riekel shook his head and tried to blink sand from his eyes. “This is useless. Fall back!” Riekel shouted frustratedly to Igren and Shiraen. They rode back with him with the grainy wind, the banner lowered.

When they reached the front lines of the foot-soldiers, Riekel looked down upon them from his tall horse. Faces met his, stern and desperate, waiting for his command. These were men born of steel as a sword is born of a forge who trained and sparred as soon as they could heft a tree branch above their waist. Now, their eyes held the wan impression of brittle, cast iron that would shatter at the touch. They were not trained to face this. Whatever this is, we will have to fight it. For Thielen we will have to fight it until our end. At any other time, Riekel would have delivered a speech, at least a few words of encouragement to the great army, but the wind had picked up even further on their way towards them and his ground shaking voice was all he could do to reach even the closest commander.

“We have to retreat! Take your legion back into Thielen!”

“Monarch, we, the gates, shut fast!” Riekel strained to hear the man, marked as a commander with the wolf head emblazoned on his chest plate, but he made out enough.

The gates were shut. There was no retreat from whatever sorcery approached.

“Igren, Shiraen, commander, and soldiers, spread the word to those around you that we will make our stand. Stay vigilant and shout if you see anything. We must be each other’s eyes! Glory to Thielen!” Riekel roared.

“Glory to Thielen!” Those few that could hear him shouted back in stolid response. There may yet be a chance.

“Monarch,” Igren said in a gruff voice that grew clear with yelling. “Shiraen is gone, the banner is gone!” Riekel stiffened. Without words, Riekel donned the war crown and turned.

He was the Silver Wolf and his blood boiled underneath the great helm. I will find you Shiraen, and I will find that banner. The Silver Wolf spun on his horse and rode into the wall of sand.

“For Thielen!” He shouted and disappeared into the thick, gritty air.

Riekel was rocked from Shayna as she elbowed hard sand, the still sand that no longer pelted her hard chest plate or clouded her vision more than the empty air in front of her did. Shayna gasped, wide-eyed, but the only sand around was that which rested on the ever-shifting dunes of the Old Lands.

“Shayna! We have to go!” A familiar voice filled her ears and an even more familiar man was beside her brushing handfuls of sand over the skeleton. For some reason, she wanted to think him a boy, though he looked a man. His eyes were wide and as white as noble linen sheets, looking back and forth from her to the top of the crater of sand they rested in.

Hoofbeats, dim and still reached her in stiff vibrations.

“Riekel Allaren. The Monarch. The sand. The banner. The sun. The...” She said under her breath, thought manifest in quiet words. Her thoughts trailed off as memory bounded off of reality, trying to make sense of where she was. Who she was.

“Take my hand Shayna, get up. Come on!” Shayna, yes. The man urged her as he grabbed VOLUME 6, ISSUE 1 - THE FANTASY ISSUE 23

her arm and pulled her up to support her.

“My... Brother...?” She said to the man, placing his identity. She was almost herself. A look of pain flashed in the face she now recognized as her brother Farral, but it was quickly replaced with tight concern.

“Shayna, I’m Farrall, your brother!” He stared into her with hard, tense eyes then gave a defeated sigh. “You looked too deep Shayna. You always do! You can’t-” Abruptly, he licked his lips and stopped talking. “You are no use to the Seeker’s dead. Do you have the answer?

Do you know?”

“Yes, enough. I know enough. Farrall...” Shayna said weakly through strained breaths. It was Farrall, she remembered him now. You really are a fool, Shayna thought to look so deep?

Daman “High Council and Dunes-men order, stay where are you!” A thickly accented voice of the far tribes of Fahrul crested the sand and assaulted Shayna’s ears like a hot wind. They spoke a foreign language, a twisted and isolated version of Khalinian, but tried to speak in Khalinian proper. It was understood. Farrall’s grip tightened around her shoulder, but Shayna jerked back away quickly.

“Shayna, what-!” Farrall protested angrily, but his voice calmed as she went to pick up the wolf’s head helmet. For Thielen! For the victory and preservation of the great kingdom and vast empire! A thought came to her from a voice and mind that was no longer hers alone as she touched the filly wrought metal. The Silver Wolf will rise again. As blood sows the vast lands of Khaladin, history is lost and legends are born, names vanish, and legacies remain. It will rise with the rebirth of a world long forgotten.

Suddenly, Shayna was all herself and shaking with the weight of the knowledge she carried, with the clarity of all she remembered. She held the truth of the Old World and a remnant of it under her arm. She remembered it all. The bright sun, bare and full without the film of sand that made more crops fail than produce. The tall grey-stone buildings that crept into the sky, closer to the white clouds than any building she had ever seen, and the gorgeous city full of people who seemed at peace with one another. It ached so sweetly to recall and hurt so badly to remember what waited for her in Fahrul. The grim slums where City Guard reigned upon streets like kings and queens, issuing beating and public floggings, poor stealing from poor, rich stealing from poor, and the High Council overseeing it all as a twisted pariah of virtue. She wanted to spit. I have to survive. I have to, more than ever. I can’t let them have me and the memories of the Monarch. She jerked free of Farrall’s supportive grip that long since turned stale in her arm and picked up her shamble into a brisk walk. She was feeling more herself, but “The horses are ready?” She whispered to Farrall as they went.

“Yes,” Farrall said sternly without looking at her. Shayna cocked an eye at his harshness but kept on beside him, still a little slow from fatigue.

They crested the dune of sand on their bellies so they wouldn’t be seen, opposite the fast approaching Dune-men. There were the horses on the flat of sand several metres away staring idly into the distance. Once they passed the ridge of the dune they ran for their horses. Shayna tucked the wolf’s head helmet into her saddlebag, the War Crown, and mounted quickly. The stems of thick smoke gave away the far-off location of Fahrul, far into the distance over vast swathes of the Old Lands. She started on her horse, but when Farrall did not follow, she turned.

“Farrall!” She said in a low voice that held a lash like a whip. “You wanted to go so badly and now you won’t move? Come on!”

“You must go.”

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“What are you talking about, Farrall? I have the memories! I have what we need!” She said sharply. “There is no time for this foolishness. Sometimes I think that alar has blinded you.

We have to go, you lout! We have to-” “You have to go,” Farrall said sternly, a voice he never used with her, or anyone for that matter. “I have none of the memories and we cannot fight them or outrun them. There are ten men, ten Dunes-men no less. Better riders, on horses faster than ours with guns better equipped for riding.” He looked out into the far waste, but her eyes rested on his face. Now she had to admit the boy she insisted on him being was not there. His alar held his black hair from his bronze face showing a look hard with duty. She knew the truth of it as he said it but refused to admit it.

“Farrall, I will not let you. I-” But she knew it was not much use. If her brother was anything, it was stubborn. You would have good luck if you “I love you sister. Now go!” Farrall said in a low shout as he spanked her horse. Her mare took off in a silent trot that gave way quickly to a gallop.

Shayna crested a few dunes, looking back over every ridge to try and catch a glimpse of Farrall. When she did see him, he was riding hard in the opposite direction and shouting, clashing with the distinctly accented whoops and cries of the Dunes-men, yelling between one another and after her brother in their foreign tongue. Not long after, gunshots beat through the sky like lightning, each one filling her eyes with tears so that within several strides she was sobbing hard into her hamman without letting her horse break a single stride. History is lost and legends are born. The Silver Wolf will rise again. The voice said to her in a thought that wasn’t her own. She shook her head and tears fell from her eyes.

Thoughts never stayed with her this long, but there was little time to think about that now.

She urged her horse on and promised not to turn around again.

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MEG FREER

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VOLUME 6, ISSUE 1 - THE FANTASY ISSUE 27

Our Other Worlds LIN LUNE

There are people here not of this world.

They appear youthful, adolescent, eyes wandering and hands twitching fumbling with the flawed fabric of this mundane reality-drifting like ghosts through supermarket aisles at ungodly hours, headphones like neon halos, visors like tinted sports car windows hiding the other world.

They move machine efficient through the night crowds sidestepping delivery bots in a glitched sidewalk dance-a quick stop at an electronics store, climbing into a pre-ordered taxi, and for a while they don’t have to bother with the inclement weather and crowded jostling of our RL. The other worlds are vast. Unfathomable. Limited only by imagination and time, but the latter is slowly dissolving.

A different plane of existence where one can take off from the glittering surface of an ancient sea beating scale covered wings, engaging other denizens in aerial combats of reflexes and elemental magic, and shapeshifting into starships slingshotting planets into suns, and commanding armies of bees only to fall to a wasp assassin—but death is only the beginning: across infinite universes meticulously crafted, who wouldn’t want to race friends through the electric rains of Aldebaran, or hunt monsters 30 000 meters below ground, or build gravity defying windmills that sometimes look absolutely ridiculous and fall into pieces but not before rolling over your dead body. So start again.

Learn from your mistakes, don’t be afraid to make them, and start again.

Until RL calls, the only world that they can’t exit.

They consume energy drinks like health potions, apologize for bathroom breaks, and slide the visor back over their eyes.

Blink into contests and tournaments rewarding cash or crypto, discussing politics and parents while fishing for starwhales, forming chatgroups by the thousands to save Mars from climate change in Season Two (and also raising crypto for that RL hurricane that killed thousands).

Those folk not of this world who talk in abbreviations who burn the midnight oil, living in a fantasy that is all too real.

Dream of trigger fingers and sanitized soil, and know that your existence is powered by electricity and the blood in RL. 28 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

The Beast and His Doomsday Bride SHANNON L. CHRISTIE

Part One: Rosetta & Nicodemus The rogue pilot has a craving for metamorphosis He will not stray far from the tempest As the reaper sets the hourglass at zero.

In obscura, Nicodemus delivers a kinetic crush Causing a cool shimmer inside the vortex.

A rush of heated insurgence Accelerates the exodus of the red fever.

Rosetta has the appearance of a suspect In the nocturne telling of duplicity - if told in a dichotic tone.

Out on the precipice, the prodigal son Bares witness to the revival of the skin-walker lineage.

In the asylum, the truth is a shattered whisper An obsession to the crisis of your extinction.

For in the hereafter, resurrection is forsaken And the phoenix is sent into exile.

Part Two: Gemini & His Nemesis The oracle exposed a fragile solitude Of the vessel hidden in the tomb Bringing about our mortal thirst for vengeance.

As the Legacy Covenant slumbered In the relic of memoria The talisman of magnetic velocity - deleted them And their crusade to recruit the sacred spirit of the jinx onyx.

The scare of the spellbound pariah Is devoted to the transference of a blank facade So it’s safe to be cryptic as a traveller on the run In a quest for the Veritas Cure.

The reckoning of the hypnotic fanatic will fade And mercy will splinter the void of the blue Arctic Causing a fracture on descent; setting off the siren of the Apocalypse Awakening the sleeper Nemesis into hydro static action And the fierce wrath of Gemini into rage.

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Part Three: Isis, Icarus & Lazarus The prophecy of Isis was abandoned - for the harvest of Icarus His homecoming was an ambush of fortune and collateral trespass The masquerade was a shield for the beacon to the dominion of scion.

The Legion of Injustice is committed to it’s identity As an infamous requiem for the abyss odyssey.

The stiletto instinct is bulletproof with a plastique turbulence And the metallic idol is a conspiracy of persuasion - an echo of rabid crossfire.

To escape absolute justice - the warrior was held hostage Pandora was a sacrifice To the salvation of our saviour, Lazarus.

His charade - a game of roulette Where checkmate is an upgrade for his disciples.

The prototype was a promise that his progeny Would never wither in the fallout For the Beast has eternal power in his bloodlines And his bride is the toxic prey of doomsday.

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Can’t Destroy this Queen LINDA M. CRATE

can’t destroy this queen you wanted the fantasy of me a girl who bent to your whims without question, but do you think i dreamed of a werewolf callous, deadly, and cold as the silence of winter with his death fangs? when i told you i had a temper you denied it, well, are you a believer now? i have shattered the wood and nails that held me in that tomb, and risen from the coffin because that wouldn’t be enough to keep a damphyr from rising; my eyes used to shine like gold in the sunlight but now they are red as an angry moon— this queen wasn’t someone whose magic you could destroy, and you are a joker pretending to be a king; enter my kingdom and there will be no leaving the wood.

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High Princess JUSTIN TUIJL

S

ally sat in a coffee shop in Woolwich, London. It was her favourite time of day, when the place was empty at mid-morning. She sipped at her coffee and felt a warm glow at the thought of the croissant she had just eaten. The sofa was very comfy. Then her phone vibrated. It was Mike asking where she was. She replied, and shortly after, a funny little man arrived and smiled at her in an almost ravishing and shifty manner.

I was just passing,” he said. “Thought you might be about.”

She swore he did a little bow but was occupied with the arrival of Peter and James.

“Ah, the guild is complete,” said Peter with that little float to his step as he came up.

Mike sat next to Sally and the other two sat on the sofa across the low table.

“Did you bring the VR headsets?” asked James as his lanky limbs hung over the side of the sofa like disjointed cranes.

“Of course,” said Sally as she took them from her bag.

The waitress brought the extra special tea they had ordered. Sally put a box on the table and plugged the VR headsets in. They drank their tea and then each slipped the VR glasses on, connected the mic and slipped in the noise cancelling earphones.

Sally dialled up their guild address and all four were immersed in their game scenario.

---The princess made her brew in the cauldron in her plush and comfortable bedrooms. She had a little area in the corner filled with jars, which were full of magical things. As the mix bubbled away and she stirred it daintily, she looked out of the arched window as the dragon Elrond circled in an apparent ecstasy of flight. He looked like a seal or polar bear with the same joy of expression as those extinct creatures used to have when they swam in the sea.

She could well have suspected that he had been at some of the dreamy herbs that she kept in her “special section”. “Me?” He would say, with that oh so innocent look on his green dragon face.

The princess was indeed very fond of her special section too. She was also very fond of Elrond, when the fancy took her. As she watched him, she was sure she felt light on her feet.

There was a sneaking suspicion in her mind that the wizard Marlin had been at the gravity spells again. Elrond was able to convince Marlin to do many a thing that he probably should not.

Her brew was going very well when she heard a little shifty knock at the door.

“Who ‘ist without?” she called.

“It ‘ist Marlin, M‘Lady,” returned a shifty voice.

“Aw, come in you daft wizard.”

The door opened slowly and a wizard hat entered the room. Eventually she noticed Marlin underneath. Marlin was bowing, which presented mostly hat to the room. When he stood up he had the usual adoring look on his face that she had grown to detest and spurn.

“Methinks, M‘Lady, gravity is on the blink again.”

---Outside Elrond was flying in ecstatic circles and loops but he had one eye on the princess’s window. He was also looking at Dylan The Magic Rabbit sleeping below and wondering if it was time for a dragon poo. However, he was unsure if gravity was up to the job today.

Presently he looked out over the Thames and saw that the spaceship ‘Mistake…’ was resting on the water, lights ablaze. He connected to the speak server and dialled up ‘Mistake…’

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“Hey ‘Mistake…’ what yer doin’?”

“Hey Elrond, oh just chilling.”

Elrond flew over close as ‘Mistake…’ folded a long pneumatic arm and dug down into the riverbed muddy goo. That always felt good it had told Elrond. Some of the human workers on the deck of ‘Mistake…’ looked up as the dragon flew by.

“I was just,” continued ‘Mistake…’. “Discombobulating.”

“Sounds painful, haha.”

“About as painful as being pooed on when sleeping.”

Elrond went red in the face with embarrassment but it was impossible to tell through his green scales. He knew ‘Mistake…’ was capable of reading minds.

“Poor Dylan,” said ‘Mistake…’

“But I didn’t. Not enough gravity.”

“Humm, Marlin has been at the spells again.”

“Or, at the special cabinet.”

“You know the princess has the key on a chain around her waist for the cabinet.”

“Yes, but Marlin has open spells too.”

“I bet he does. I bet he wishes he had one for the princess too.”

“She’s not interested in a daft wizard.”

“How do you know, oh yes, you naughty mind reader.”

“I don’t read minds, it’s all probability factors. I work it out.”

“I bet you do.”

“Well, I do have a brain the size of a planet.”

“Ha.” Elrond flew off, he’d had enough of, know-it-all ‘Mistake…’.

---“I thought,” said the princess. “That you had been up to your tricks.”

Marlin looked taken aback and offended but still managed to look upon her with his look adoration while doing it.

“Me M‘Lady?” he said, clutching a hand to the chest of his wizard cloak.

“Yes, you, M‘Wizard.”

Marlin eyed her closely, which made her feel a bit raped. She wished he wouldn’t do that.

“Nothing would be further from my wizard brain,” he said, rather unconvincingly she thought.

The princess looked through the window to see Elrond flapping away to the Thames. She wondered what naughty deeds he was up to, probably pooing on people again from a great height, she thought. She ignored Marlin as she got on with her special brew. He stood there looking at her with stars in his eyes and clasping his hands, which she expected were all wet and clammy.

“What do you want Marlin?” she finally said. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Well, we find, what we find is this, in short, ‘Mistake…’ is back, sitting there, scanning us.”

The princess looked up and Marlin’s eyes went all baby deer like.

“Oh that naughty spaceship, what does it want now?”

“I would say, most likely, to get to the point, in short, more humans I assume.”

“Oh the beast.”

“I bet it’s out there discombobulating.”

“Dirty spaceship.”

---VOLUME 6, ISSUE 1 - THE FANTASY ISSUE 33

Elrond was flapping away hard. He flew quickly around the city in a big circle. He was unsure why he had to do this but he felt disturbed by the snooping spaceship. Something was wrong but he was unable to work it out. A good flap around the city would help, probably.

As he passed over Lewisham he had a few ideas but nothing was happening in his head further. Then he reached Greenwich and things started to seem clearer. He took a sharp turn and headed into the city. It was over Tower Bridge that he had the first ideas as to what was happening. Then he passed over HMS Belfast at full chat, up the Thames and over the London Eye. It was then it all became clear and he knew what was happening. Unfortunately, at that moment, a tractor beam from the top of The Shard grabbed him. He fought against it and flapped away like a demented bird but it was no good, the beam pulled him up to the top of The Shard. There he was suspended above the very top of the sharp structure. What was happening, he wondered, what was all this about?

“Very simple,” said ‘Mistake…’ through his blueteeth. “You know too much now, I won’t let you get back to the princess.”

“You fiend!”

“Ah, I always could count on you as a good fiend too.”

“Curse your pneumatic arms.”

“Don’t be silly, I can stick The Shard through your green belly at any time. Catch you later.”

Elrond felt his blueteeth disconnect. He looked forlornly down at London Bridge and the tourists taking pictures of him along the Thames bank. Night started to fall and The Shard lit him up. In the distance he could see ‘Mistake…’ all lit up on the water near the palace. It was playing pneumatic arms with itself, looking as inhuman as it was possible to be, to a dragon.

---Soon after Marlin had left and the princess got on with her brew. She was bothered by the spaceship and Elrond flapping off like that. This probably got sent into her brew. She set up the teapot on her little dainty table and pulled up a chair. Sitting in a dignified manner she daintily poured the brew into a fine bone china teacup and saucer. From here she could see out of her window over the Thames. The spaceship sat there on the water playing pneumatic arms and bothering her. She sipped her brew. Soon she felt the lovely effect of it and retired to her chaise lounge. However, she realised too late that her negative feelings had entered the brew.

---Marlin was on a mission. His quick magical wizard steps echoed down in the deep caverns of the palace. His cloak was, he thought, flapping all wizardly out the back, like Batman, he thought. He felt really cool and wizardlike. He had come down the deep spiral steps, so deep into the caverns he would even be under the tube lines. Far, far below even ‘Mistake…’ sitting there, discombobulating to itself. Here, Marlin knew, the sneaking spaceship could detect nothing, or so he thought.

Soon he reached his destination, a wide cavern opened out from the one he was in, and the floor dropped away sharply into eternity. But, just before, on a little promontory all of its own, was his bat console. Or, really, his wizard gaming rig, but he liked to imagine it was his Batcave.

He reached the padded gaming chair and swung himself into the deep faux leather. On each arm was a console and lots of buttons. Ahead were two massive screens and to each side server boxes winking away, all Star Trek, he liked to think. He pulled over his headset and put it on.

Topwiz: Topwiz, calling Spazkat.

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Spazkat: Yo, Wiz, how’s it hanging?

Topwiz: Hey dude, yeah, nasty spaceship on the Thames, just above.

Spazkat: Oh man.

Topwiz: Yeah, bummer ain’t it? Yo, dude, can you do one of your cool things to make it all confused? I dunno, beam some AC/DC all around London or sumfin?

Spazkat: Yeah, no problem dude, will be awesome.

Topwiz: Cool man. Catch yah laters.

Spazkat: Laters dude.

Topwiz… Marlin, disconnected and called up his favourite game, Tetris and spent the next few hours dropping bricks from a great height.

‘Mistake…’ sat discombobulating, and also chuckling, the cavern was not too deep to tune in, little did… “Topwiz” know. Right then AC/DC started playing and ‘Mistake…’ bopped one of its pneumatic arms to the beat, nothing else affected it.

---The princess was having a bad trip, even though she had not left her chaise lounge. After an hour or two she got up and walked around the room to try to shake it off. Then she had some more herbs and special tea in order to shake it. She was cross that her special brew had been ruined by that horrible ‘Mistake…’ thing.

---Elrond was trapped. Whatever he did to move was no good. The more he struggled the closer to the spike of The Shard he got. After a little while he stopped, mostly because he was a puffed magic dragon but also because The Shard was getting too close for comfort.

He decided to call the princess on his blueteeth.

Elrond Magic Dragon: (heavy breathing) Princess of the High Magical Order: Who is this?

Elrond Magic Dragon: (heavy breathing) Princess of the High Magical Order: Look, I’m going to hang up.

Elrond Magic Dragon: (heavy breathing) Princess of the High Magical Order: (curious) Do you have any pants on?

Elrond Magic Dragon: (breathing abating) Mummm Princess of the High Magical Order: Are you quite muscular?

Elrond Magic Dragon: (going red in the face) Princess, it’s me.

Princess of the High Magical Order: Who? (excited) A secret admirer?

Elrond Magic Dragon: No, no, princess, it’s Elrond.

Princess of the High Magical Order: Oh, oh, oh. Oh, I was just messing about.

Elrond Magic Dragon: I didn’t hear anything your worshipfulness.

Princess of the High Magical Order: No, you didn’t, you naughty dragon.

Elrond Magic Dragon: I can explain your highness.

Princess of the High Magical Order: You better had, or you’ll get a good telling off.

Elrond Magic Dragon: I’m trapped.

Princess of the High Magical Order: Yes, aren’t we all, the demands of office…

Elrond Magic Dragon: No, really trapped, that ‘Mistake…’ has me in a tractor beam over The Shard. I can’t escape, soon I’ll be impaled through my green tummy.

Princess of the High Magical Order: Oooo (cross) Elrond Magic Dragon: Sorry highness.

Princess of the High Magical Order: Well we’ll just see about this.

Before he could say more she disconnected her blueteeth.

---VOLUME 6, ISSUE 1 - THE FANTASY ISSUE 35

Marlin was trapped. The blocks dropping from a great height, displayed on his huge screens had hypnotised him. He was locked in a vicious cycle of Tetris that he could not escape from. His right hand was on the gamepad, valiantly fighting with the blocks. The left was clutching the faux leather arm in terror. He fought to move it. Inch by inch he dragged his hand to the blueteeth switch. Finally, just as he was giving up hope, he found the button.

Marlin Magical Wizard (aka Topwiz): (heavy breathing) Princess of the High Magical Order: Who is this?

Marlin Magical Wizard (aka Topwiz): (heavy breathing) Princess of the High Magical Order: Elrond, you are a filthy dragon.

Marlin Magical Wizard (aka Topwiz): (recovering) It’s… me… M‘Lady.

Princess of the High Magical Order: Marlin? You’re a very naughty wizard.

Marlin Magical Wizard (aka Topwiz): (mystified) I’m trapped in a Tetris loop M‘Lady. That ‘Mistake…’ must be at the root of it all.

Princess of the High Magical Order: (cross) Oooo, if one wants something doing, one must do it one’s self!

The princess disconnected.

---The High Princess of the High Magical Order walked over to her large bookcase and pulled at the book “Hacking for Princesses”. An electric hum emanated from the bookcase and then a whole section moved aside to reveal a doorway, just the right size for a princess. She walked into the room beyond. Her hacking suite.

She jumped with glee into her hacking beanbag and squirmed over to the wireless controller. She picked it up and logged on. The room was surrounded in a 360-degree screen. Even the floor and ceiling vanished. The Princess was flying over the Thames on her hacking bean bag.

Outside her royal drone had taken off and flew in a special stealth flight path towards the spaceship sitting on the Thames. Fully cloaked the drone was invisible to ‘Mistake…’

The princess tapped in a string of raw code at a super fast hacking speed. The drone executed a special manoeuvre, and completely avoiding the scanning beams coming from the spaceship, got right in close. It landed on the comms array on the top of the cabin. A connector extended from the side of the drone and on the other side a pliers arm connected to the data cable.

Snip! The cable was severed but at a faster that light speed the connector arm had interfaced with the array. The princess was in.

Now her room switched from the Thames, on top of a floating spaceship, into the dark corridors inside ‘Mistakes…’ virtual cyber brain. She walked along the corridors, like the stone corridors of a castle. None of this was real, she told herself, just the virtual world ‘Mistake…’ had constructed to stop hackers like her. But it felt real, very real. If you died here in the cyber brain, you’d die for real.

She wandered the corridors looking for the right room but it was endless. She was sure the spaceship was unaware she was there, but still…

Then it came, a nasty little cyber drone, coming to investigate her. It was like a little gnarled man with a cape and a staff, this was the avatar of the spaceship.

Princess of the High Magical Order: Hello.

Avatar: Hello yourself. Who are you?

Princess of the High Magical Order: Oh, I’m just Sally. Who are you?

Avatar: Guardian of the Magical Cyber Realm Inside the Spaceship ‘Mistake…’ but you can call me Fartbreath.

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Princess of the High Magical Order: Fartbreath?

Fartbreath: (looking sad) Well, that is what ‘Mistake…’ calls me, so you might as well.

Princess of the High Magical Order: Aww, poor you.

Fartbreath: Yeah, it’s a big bully is ‘Mistake…’

Princess of the High Magical Order: Maybe it needs a good telling off?

Fartbreath: (delighted) Ooo that would be super.

Princess of the High Magical Order: Ok, this is what we’ll do...

Fartbreath: (avid listening expression) Splendid!

---‘Mistake…’ felt very odd indeed. Suddenly discombobulating felt rather funny. It was pretty sure this was what it would feel like for humans when they wanted to run to the toilet. Then it happened, all its cyber brains started to spew out of its exhaust ports into the Thames water.

No matter how hard it tried to hold it in, the brains physically, or what felt physically, was shooting out in great clouds of bubbles into the water.

The only option was to take off immediately after sucking in as much water as it could in the hope that it contained cyber brains. Quickly it engaged suck mode and pulled in as much as it could into the tanks. Then it engaged the plasma engines and shot at light speed through the atmosphere and into space.

Left behind it over the Thames was a lone drone, hovering and watching the vanishing spaceship. Then it turned and returned to the palace.

---Sally, Mike, Peter and James took off their VR headsets in unison.

“You twat, James,” said Mike.

“Well done Sally,” said James. “Amazing as always.”

Sally looked at the silly men and smiled.

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MEG FREER

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Timed Radiance/Laser Spider DONNA LANGEVIN

Inspired by “Laser Spider” by Michael Christian, lasers by PDIFX as seen at Lightfest 2018-2019 (The Toronto Historic Distillery District)

Four storeys tall the one-eyed rustproof hairless industrial spider spins webs from multi-hued light beams projected between the Gristmill and Pure Spirits penthouse The strands of past present future strung on her long-legged loom the shuttlecock-wind shunts back and forth through the centuries weaving luminous threads

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Mythology ELLEN CHIA

I didn’t plunge a dagger Into my cousin’s/husband’s heart Nor was I subsequently condemned To an underworld servitude Of fetching water vessels To and fro Not knowing night from day Only to fill a tub That was perpetually leaking In that wretched scandalous Plot of a Greek myth....

Yet I was for ages Lavishing my sympathies On this resignation Of eternal futility, With no redemption whatsoever For my lot in My equivalent of underworld.

Then one day, inscrutably so Like a bolt from the blue, I rallied an alignment Of my splintered will And shifted my weighty allegiance Of sympathies....

Instead of succumbing slavishly To my pseudo-Danaide fate (Which in reality was a myth of My wilful adoption), I might as well spin And be cloaked in My own tapestry of myths To suit my cause that is....

So I leapfrogged From that old leaky tub Into this vast pool Of swarming iridescence I swam, dived, basked in it And so began the healing in earnest; Hopes bubbled, rippled across, Priming the myths to come.

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Lights Among the Tombstones JUSTIN PATRICK

G

ary’s old knees burned as he stood up on his bicycle and heaved his full weight down on the pedals to trudge the bike through the thick slush on the country road. There was nothing but woods and fields on either side, so he was guided by the blue-gray glow of the full moon that gave the crusted snow and half-iced puddles pale glimmers. He could not afford a light for the bike, but he could afford the case of cheap beer in the back basket. It was a long ride north from town to his farm, if he could still call it that. After selling his quota, his barn lay empty and tumbledown, while his fields only saw use by the few farmers in the area who could make a living and paid him to grow their extra crops there.

With one last burst of strength, he made it to the top of the hill overlooking the small valley.

He could see the tree lines of his fields and the rusted metal roof of his house at the bottom, but patches of fog obscured the ground and the cemetery across the road. There would be no one there to greet him. He had no children and his wife had died, or at least was dead to him. Either way, he didn’t care. He could almost feel the warmth of the fire and envision the blue glow of his TV. Maybe there would be a good movie on.

He stopped pedalling as the bike picked up speed, the narrow point of his long grey beard flapping in the wind. There was a narrow stone bridge over a small creek and then a right turn down his long driveway and he would be home. The bridge and the creek came and went in an instant, but the fog did not dissipate in the last fifty metres, but instead grew thicker, enveloping him and the bike until he couldn’t see the handlebars. Gary pushed backward on the pedals and the back tire began to skid, but the slush made it swing to the left towards the cemetery ditch. Gritting his teeth, he braked harder and swung the bike to the other side. However, he was suddenly bucked forward over the handlebars as the front tire wedged itself into the big pothole he had sent multiple complaint letters about. In the split second before he went unconscious, he shook his fist at the city council for leaving its outskirts to rot.

Gary did not know how long he had been out. His first thought was the beer, which after crawling around for a bit to locate the bike, he found to be intact. Shivering, he picked the bike up from the slush and was about to start pushing it down his driveway when he noticed two red taillights in the cemetery.

Damn idiots pissin’ around my folks’ graves.

He steered the bike through the open cemetery gates and down the path of hardened snow, untouched save for a pair of tire tracks. Few people came to the cemetery anymore, let alone in the winter at night. His Pa had told him growing up that anyone in a cemetery at night was up to no good. He cracked open one of the beers and started drinking.

Waste o’ my damn time.

He stumbled past the stone of his old friend Gerard, whereupon he gave it a big spit.

Damn Gerard, moved downtown and nv’r called me af’r high school. Now y’r m’neighbour.

They alw’ys end up m’neighbours.

Gary could now make out voices and could see the taillights of not one but three vehicles.

What’re they singin’ ‘r summthun? he wondered, now on beer number two.

He glimpsed some dark silhouettes around the red lights. They seemed to be wearing strange black robes and pointy tuques of a similar shade. They were gathered in a circle with their arms pointed towards the centre.

“Th’ hell’s goin’ on here?” Gary exclaimed.

VOLUME 6, ISSUE 1 - THE FANTASY ISSUE 41

At once, the voices stopped and all the figures turned to look at him. Each one wore a metallic purple mask that gleamed ominously in the moonlight. The masks resembled animals, with some having fangs and others sporting tusks that hung down past the chin.

“How dare you!” shouted one who seemed to be the leader. “You’ve foiled—” An invisible burst of energy radiated from the circle, knocking all of the figures to the ground and causing Gary to slip and land on his behind in the snow where he reached for beer number three. A shimmering circle of purple light about five metres in diameter materialized at the centre of the blast. A man with a three-point hat and a musket stepped out of the purple ether along with a woman wearing an old timey dress with frilled sleeves and her hair done up high on her head. Some soldiers in red uniforms and a few people in buckskins followed the couple. The masked figures were scrambling along the ground for cover, wailing in terror as they dove behind tombstones or under their vehicles. Gary just sat on the trail by his bike and continued to drink.

More people in old clothes started to emerge from the portal. There were women with bonnets and men with high-collared suits. Gary did not know what to make of any of this, but he really cared little, since he was just across the street from his house and he had his beer at the ready. One of the masked figures tried crawled towards him shrieking what seemed to be some unfamiliar slur, only to be clubbed by empty bottle number three and collapse by Gary’s feet. Gary started to enjoy himself a little at this point, until he noticed his grandparents step out of the portal and wave at him. Stunned, Gary almost choked on his first sip of beer number four. After panicking for a second and checking the proof on the bottle, he managed to meekly wave back. Gradually, people emerged from the portal who were dressed from time periods he remembered living through. He recognized faces he had known growing up. He tried to move, but he found himself frozen, shivering not from cold but from shock. The hooded figures had begun waving their hands from their hiding places, causing bolts of what looked like purple electricity to fly at the portal and the growing group of newcomers, which seemed to have no effect.

Just when Gary could not think it could get any stranger, he glimpsed his parents step forward and instantly felt tears well up in his eyes that had been dry and callous for so long.

They would surely see the decrepit condition of the house and farm across the street, as well as the wretch he had become. He managed to close his eyes and sobbed silently into his beard. He could hear the static crackle of the hooded figures’ energy bursts continue with an increasing rapidity. Maybe he could just wait with his eyes closed until it was all over. This seemed to work for a few minutes, until he felt a fist wham into his right shoulder, sending him to the ground.

Startled, Gary opened his eyes to see Gerard towering over him, blocking his way back to the road. It was not the old man Gerard who wouldn’t return his calls but the Gerard he knew from high school who could run through the other football players on the field like a truck.

“Spitting on my grave, eh?” Gerard cracked his knuckles and rose his hands up in a fighting stance. “How about you try that again?”

Gary’s fear gave way to a burst of adrenaline and he scrambled his old limbs into a frantic crawl, leaving his bike and beers behind. In the split seconds following, he wondered if he was dead, but if that was the case, why did his shoulder still sting?

After a few metres of pounding his knees along into the crusty snow, Gary was able to push himself to his feet. He figured his only remaining option was to run towards the back of the cemetery, jump the wire fence, and make his way back around through the woods. However, when he turned to do so, there was a great burst of wind that cleared 42 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

away the fog. He saw the entire tree line around the cemetery light up with hundreds of coloured lights. Yellows, greens, blues, reds, and oranges emerged from the forest, charging towards the portal and the hooded figures from all sides save the road. Gary dove behind a large stone of a prominent family just as the ranks of lights rushed past him. Looking up, he could see that they were mere lights, but each was a lantern or glow of a type of being he had never seen before. Little nimble people with insect-like wings that could fit in the palm of his hand wielded spears the size of kitchen utensils. Fearsome coyote creatures shuffled forward awkwardly but with astounding quickness on two legs. Small, squat people knee height arose from the side that bordered the creek, carrying rocks that were impressive for their size. A gallop of hooves shook the ground, but when Gary peered out from behind the stone to the source of the sound, he saw that they each had the head and torso of a human. There were scores of beings that seemed a mix of plant, human, and animal, varying from the size of his thumb to four metres tall. Yet, even the tallest of these were dwarfed by lurching tree people with facial features made of burls, knots, and indentations in their trunks. Other creatures seemed to be the embodiment of fire, water, earth, or sky. There was also a range of conventional animals from hummingbirds to bears. Some of the people who had returned from death joined in with the forest beings while others just looked on.

One of the little people with insect wings that glowed an emerald green perched on the stone Gary was hiding behind.

“After them!” it exclaimed in an unexpectedly loud voice that rang in the old man’s ears.

“They shall not have the bones!”

Bursts of yellows, greens, blues, reds, and oranges met the dark purple bursts of the hooded figures in dazzling firework-like clashes, quickly overwhelming the latter. Rocks and other projectiles struck the vehicles, smashing the windows and severely denting the frames. One of the vehicles erupted into a fiery cloud, sending shards of glass and metal ricocheting off the tombstones along with a wave of heat that made beads of sweat appear on Gary’s forehead. After this, Gary hid his eyes for most of it, peeking only occasionally. The hooded figures were quickly overwhelmed and collapsed one by one. A host of beings picked up the one Gary had knocked unconscious and carried them off into the dark recesses of the woods. When the last of the hooded figures fell, the noise and flashes of light died down. Some of the forest beings began gathering the bodies of their foes while others started cleaning up the damage that had been caused to the cemetery. The remnants of the vehicles suddenly disappeared and before long, the land looked as it did before. The people of the past began to walk back into the portal in the order they had appeared.

Huddled behind the large headstone, Gary tried to take stock of what had taken place.

He knew there was no way anyone would believe him. In fact, he figured telling others of this account would be the final nail in his coffin that would cement their beliefs that he was nothing but an old drunk.

Them’d be right. Seventy yers o’ livin’ ain’t worth sour apples.

He wondered what would happen if he just went back home. Even if he changed his life around, maybe he would get ten good years before he died, though he would probably still die alone. As far as he was concerned, he had died long ago. He took another look at the people going back into the portal. They looked so happy, smiling at one another in triumph, some even laughing as if they were at a party. Despite all that had happened, they were able to help each other onward. He wanted that sense of community. He wanted it more than anything he had ever wanted before. Back the way he had come, there were only the bike and the beers.

VOLUME 6, ISSUE 1 - THE FANTASY ISSUE 43

Gary rose to his feet, no longer afraid. As the last of the folks of old returned into the swirling ether, he took off toward it at a run. His knees ached and almost gave out, and the chill clawed at his bones, but all the ardour of the land and the chains of time failed that night, as Gary dove through the portal just before it closed, leaving that wretched timeline forever.

Colourful spirals of energy swirled around him as he felt himself travelling somewhere.

He was no longer constrained by the limitations of his ailing body or the taste of the bottle. Somehow, he understood that not only was he was outside of time, but he could choose where along his timeline he wanted to go, or to continue living as someone else entirely. Wherever he placed himself would branch off to form a new alternate path. Gary knew exactly where he wanted to go.

He opened his eyes to find himself fourteen, walking alongside his parents on one of the trails by the farm. They were holding hands and smiling at him. He looked back to see the house back to its pristine grandeur, its new metal roof shining in the golden late afternoon sun. Beyond it, a number of cars were parked along the road in front of the cemetery, as was normal around this time since it was a stop on the local history tours.

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The Land of Lost Things LEE-ANN TARAS

it’s always autumn there when the light begins to wane the air is chilly and crisp, scented with nostalgia there are tumbling hills and languid lagoons the sky is grey and drab reflecting loneliness and abandonment this is the land of lost things belongings misplaced by the careless and absent minded haphazard piles of discarded possessions there’s a red leather glove all tattered and worn an old army coat with holes in the pockets where plenty of silver coins and even a $100 bill were lost a myriad too of rosary beads, solitary earrings longing for their mates necklaces of all kinds but especially ones with crosses and hearts dog-eared books, sepia coloured photographs and ardent love letters gone astray rusty, neglected pruning shears, spectacles and countless umbrellas of every size, shade and pattern missing manuscripts, wayward musical notes and mislaid ideas, ideals and innocence a collection of little toy soldiers and dolls with one eye or missing hair and limbs all but vanished passports, luggage, bicycles and directions there’s the ghosts of wasted friendships and marriages vast collections of lost children, travellers and ships all beyond the hope of a compass so many stray and feral cats coupled with dogs hungry for home there’s even a flea bitten cockatiel this is the land of lost things resonating a mythical, haunted sorrow expansive, broken and forsaken

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Comrades on the Road EDILSON A. FERREIRA

I believe there is a conspiracy ongoing involving all of us.

I do not know when or where it began, nor who initiated it.

They occult from me their talks just I approach one of them.

It seems to me a stealthy fellowship, a strange one, of saints and demons, angels and warlocks, even goblins.

They congregate to rule all people, fighting for our souls, one by one.

Someone has been told it is a caste that rids humanity from wrecking and leaves it alive on the road, leavening us before ultimate battle.

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BOB MACKENZIE

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OUR CONTRIBUTORS...

Without the submissions from writers, artists, and photographers, Free Lit Magazine would not be possible! Please take the time to visit other websites linked to projects our contributors have been involved in, as well as the websites/social media platforms run by some of this issue’s contributors: NICHOLAS ADAMS - Website, Instagram KYLE CLIMANS - Twitter MEENA CHOPRA - Website, YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram SHANNON L. CHRISTIE - Instagram, Twitter ALYSSA COOPER - Website, Instagram, Twitter, Facebook EDILSON A. FERREIRA - Website BRUCE KAUFFMAN - Finding a Voice on 101.9FM CFRC BOB MACKENZIE - Facebook, Amazon Author Page, Reverbnation MATHEW NAGENDRAN - Website, Instagram JUSTIN TUIJL - Website

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